


Chained

by Decepticonsensual



Series: Behind Every Beautiful Thing (Whumptober 2020) [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27169691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: On a rescue mission for his captured general, Wolffe finds confronting the battle droids easier than confronting his feelings.For Whumptober 2020 - prompt:  "shackled"
Relationships: Plo Koon/CC-3636 | Wolffe
Series: Behind Every Beautiful Thing (Whumptober 2020) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983176
Comments: 4
Kudos: 76
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Chained

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: captivity, injury, implied torture

When Wolffe kicks in the door, he has a white-hot second’s awareness of three droids, one holding a shock stick, crowding in around the long, shackled figure in the corner. General Plo’s hands are chained above his head, forcing him to stand on tip-toe even at his height. His robes are in tatters, and here and there torn away completely. There are burns, necrotic black and angry red, across his exposed skin.

The strategist part of Wolffe’s brain – the part the Kaminoans programmed to keep hatefully ticking away, cataloguing and calculating, no matter what happens around him – notes that they could be marks of torture, or simply blaster fire from the battle when the General was taken. The rest of Wolffe’s brain is transfixed by the ravaged skin, by the tenuous way the General is holding himself up. There’s something almost – _fragile,_ about it, and he can’t bear it.

And Wolffe’s hands, completely independent of any part of his brain, fire off three shots in rapid succession, dropping the droids before they have a chance to turn around.

“Wolffe.” The General’s voice cracks on his name.

It’s a second before Wolffe trusts himself to lift his eyes and meet his General’s gaze. When he does, he sees the General’s sudden, stark terror before he really has a chance to parse _how_ he sees it, scraps of body language he’s come to understand without realising – the widening of the eyes, evident even with the goggles; the way the General’s body goes bowstring-taut in his restraints. Wolffe silently curses himself. Of course; the General assumed that Wolffe’s averted gaze meant he had to tell him something awful had happened. And General Plo being General Plo, he assumed that it must have happened to someone _else_. The idea that his own predicament might have caused that look would never have crossed his mind.

Besides, Wolffe recognises that tension, that feeling of every nerve straining, waiting for news of catastrophe. When you’ve seen your battalion slaughtered in front of you once, it takes very little, afterwards, to kick your anxiety over the people you care about into high gear.

This all happens in a moment of wordless conversation, a complex exchange carried out just with their eyes, and then Wolffe blurts, “Safe. The Pack are all safe.”

The General sags in his shackles. “Thank the Force.”

“More than I can say for you, though, sir.” Wolffe moves swiftly to start working on the cuffs around the General’s wrists. “Let’s get you to a medic.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. They’d barely started when you arrived. No, mostly I’ve just been...”

“By all the little gods, sir, if you say _hanging around_ – !”

General Plo tips his head back, and says nothing, just regarding Wolffe with what Wolffe _knows_ from experience is the Kel Dor equivalent of a shit-eating grin.

And Wolffe loves him, oh, he loves him in that moment, as much and as painfully as he has ever loved him.

He flicks the cuff open, and lets himself spend a moment gently rubbing circulation back into his General’s chafed wrist. Then a moment more, just… holding it, the General’s hand all but cradled between his own.

“Wolffe.”

There’s no break, this time. The General’s voice is as Wolffe remembers it, smooth and low and –

Wolffe drops his hand, undoing the other cuff with impersonal efficiency. “We need to move, sir.” And for an entirely different reason, he once again can’t meet Plo’s eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I won't lie; this fic came about in part because I saw the prompt, and thought, "Huh, Plo would totally make a dad joke about being tied up," and then the idea wouldn't leave me alone. :D
> 
> But it also came about because I love whump!fic, and I love October, and I'm starting awfully late and may not get very far (certainly not within the month itself), but I mean to enjoy myself. Please come along for the ride!


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